he locked doors which he decided not to open anymore.
and that was long time ago. he forgets all about those doors.
this day he sees a door open. He gets inside a restaurant
for an early morning breakfast.
Someone sits there looking at the window where traffic on the street is slowly building up like fire.
The crowd outside is noisy but silenced by the glass door.
It is the real world.
Breakfast is slow and gentle and savory.
He got the coffee of his life from another hand now.
Egg has always been sunny side up. And bread is now
preferred than rice.
The smell of coffee, its sweet fumes rises to the ceiling
where light enters by the side of the roof.
The room is bright now.
There is always a blank face to everyone here.
The waitress is looking at us.
Evidently, it is not whether she cares.
It is more of like, well, as usual, she means business.
Life is always a mode of serving you and then you pay.
What more do you expect?
The world moves this way. No one serves you because
of love.
It is because she too must live.
And not just you and your floating soul.

PERINO'S NOTES


i do not know what happens next.
My heart is palpitating
like the wings of a robin
against the cage.

i see you leaving wearing a new dress.
Your shoes glisten
on the floor. Your bag is silk.
Your lips scarlet.
When the last step sounded
on the fifth stair
I get another glimpse of you.
I am lousy.
I break the best plate in the house
as i am trying to wash
it with soap and water
from the faucet.
I am in hurry too.
I do not collect broken pieces
for now.
I am wearing my new shirt,
a blue tie,
a leather belt.
White pants.
I comb my hair.
It will be glossy too,
like your shoes against
the floor.
I will close the door.
I am the last one to leave.
I have given away
the dog of the house.
There is no one barking now.

that a paper is different
from your bed,
a pen from your finger,
your mind
may look and sound familiar
but at the dining table it is too
different from the
glimmer of the champagne glass,

it is not hypocrisy,
it is just that, things in actual meeting
are different,
what was on paper may not be
real,
or what you touch altogether
an illusion,
people know hiding places
like kids,
and then you meet and talk and there
is that feeling
which tells you,
i am lost.

we are locked away
sometimes and outside can be
if you know how to change
gears,
can be more interesting in fact,
so do not fret
or worry, keep going, keep that mind open,
it does not matter
who is locked out or locked in
there are exclusive gardens
and you see it
and then you walk away and then
later on you say,
it is good.

words live in another world
as feelings are,
there are rooms and you enter
and you
sometimes do not feel at home with it,
constantly you learn
another speech, much more adaptable
palatable
and whatever they say you pretend to listen and you
know they do not really mean it,
and you learn
you talk and words come out and your eyes look outside
multitasking, you think the other way around,
you see another, your feelings walk outside of you,
what is left is a body,
breathing lungs,
the hands struggle inside your pocket
and the lady beside you does not know what
is this all about,

stars at night, moon on the building,
glasses of wine and so many stories to tell,
for a while
there is a union of conversations
people fall sleepy and then they walk away from you
wanting to find a bed
and someone
and you too.

the mind wanders like a stranger
it is tired of familiarity, a man tied to a house
even kids do not please, a wife is better left in the kitchen,
and smoke rises, and your mind rises with it,
clouds, sun, mountains, it does not want to entertain an
ideology,
it seeks pleasure, it is wishing
"unthinkfulness", a new word of the soul, an escape from the thoughts of this body,
"wandering as a cloud" or a scrap of paper floating on the river,
less the bottle,
a feather in space, a dust dancing in a ray of light entering a room early morning,
it is this blankness that makes us alive again
this emptying,
this unbreaking, away from the sophistication of love and its
hearkbreaks,
away from the ladder of an ambition,
into a pool, a jacuzzi, your body immersed, lots of bubbles caressing your skin,
your mind travels outside, and you are left alone
without anything.

HE HATED IT


a seed
is inside his belly
and it grows despite
the absence of
air

too acidic there
but it
sprouts just the same
takes root in his
colon and
a tendril comes out
in his mouth
and i see how
he uproots it at once
like some kind
of a parasite

THE FATHER THE SON AND THE KITE


at first i saw
how father made a kite

it was for me
and he taught me how to fly that paper wing
and then i aged
and too old to make a kite or fly one like that
got nobody to leave father's kite
and so i left it on the road one day
the wind took it away
and i did not bother looking where it went
you know
there are so many things that i want to lose
to forget
at this stage of my life
i want to throw everything away
it is the moment of wasting
diminution, fading, until no one remembers me
one day a father makes a kite for his son
wanting to keep everything intact
valued and loved and spread
someone wise as us knew how everything ends
as beautiful as rain that stops to make the road
glisten

looking at you
i remember the cactus
no, not the thorns,
you are wrong
no, not the prickly
experience

it has something to
do with
how we survive
in that desert
and how we still
flower despite

who is the child of God?
he is the smiling child
who sits on the lap of Christ.

i look at you
that was the preliminary part of the
perusal
on this on the spot check
of reality
and then i proceeded to the second look
which was more exhaustive this time
from tip to tip
hair to bare
it took me a longer time
another day
and then another
which led me to the last part
which involves the touch
and the taste
of some envisioned nirvana

i am glad
you wave your hand
to find the marvels of the
faraway sea
that sunlessness
which we
as a matter of conclusion
have admitted
without anymore
question

EXCUSE ME WHILE I CRY


THERE was this song
about a japanese girl who fell in love
with a Filipino
who left her bare and blue
and in the airport while
the last goodbye and
kiss were done
the poor japanese girl
excused herself
for her
cries.

sometimes you get confused
which is real
this face or this mask
rephrase: which has made me real?
this face or this mask?

i am more lively with this mask
in fact i dance my nights away wearing this mask
i ask, how come that i am alive with this mask?
and the moment i take it away
i am back to my sad self
mourning always for a loss that i have never found
despite the
death of years,
my sad self cannot be real
it is a denial of my right to be happy
and i must embrace that
truth
that what ought to be real
must be the
happy one.

to fully enjoy
what the sea offers
one need not
understand what is
it all about; no need to dissect
each wave,
the troughs,
the low and the high
points
you do not really
have the exact number
of its salt
you simply dip in there
submerge your head
close your eyes
rise from its belly
wet and
happy.

do not ever forget the sweet sound of your own voice.
it is yours. And for a lifetime, it will always be yours.
Who in this world has created the standard of what a sweet voice
can sing?

nobody. Trust your instincts. Live the nights.
Listen. Even the moon is saying, " you are sweet with me"
learn to love yourself. it is the beginning of everything.
By all means, God understands the sweetness of you.

you get tired finally of
not having to say that there is something ugly in what you see.
it is not the friendship anymore
it is the truth.
it is impersonal.

the next problem is
what you have to face
squarely
how beautiful is the enemy
how wisdom is found in them
how unlike you
how painful.

it is good
you have finally settled
not for less
you have found love
stay there

we who are still floating
in the sky
have to move on
and even till eternity
for our hunger is best
when not satisfied
we know who we are
we are more that what love can give
sometimes we are the clouds you see
it is sad
you have not felt the joys we have
when we assume the drops of
rain
the vagueness of fog
the coldness of stones

you know about things
unspoken
not because we have not seen
or touched them
but because we have experienced
how our touch
destroys them
how our stares seduce them
into us
how we have drawn them to our sides
how they wished they live with us
only to be left out
under the rain on that dark night
when cold begins to
freeze the magnanimity
of our hands.

you have not asked
but i am giving
i have so much
but i am not keeping

in fear i live
perhaps for a hundred years
you should have known
how happy is it not to belong.

you cannot say that it does not diminish you.
you did it once, you shrink into a nit.
you do it again, you must think some more
what becomes of you
in the future.
did she ask, "what's love got to do with it?'
and did you say, "nothing, nothing, this is just one
of our games"
and you did it again and she did it to you again.
and both of you were lost
lost into space, into nothingness
until morning
when light touches your faces, your butts,
her breasts, your abdomen
and you prefer to dress up
hoping that soon all these will be forgotten.

something in you closes and opens
you feel like a child again
your hands held by mama under the moon
and she teaches you how to speak
and you speak through your fingers

something in me keeps on opening
but i decided to close it as often as it opens
there is nothing that i like to say
there is more that i want to do without saying a word
i like to live in a silent world
where actions speak louder than words
where words have no use at all
this time the words can put me to shame
as i beg of you for whatever morsel of love is left
on the table of your bosom
there is something that i do that i do not want you
to utter
i put my finger to you lips to silence you
here i am begging
for more silence between us
don't say a word
these acts do not deserve the rhythm of
your affections
i am lost and would want it that way
i do not wish to find my way back to myself
it is a stranger and it does not know itself anymore.
here i am wanting more fun
wanting to be alive
wanting to be with you
wanting to be alone again
in deep thought.

in a landscape
i set aside the stars
i open the windows of
a yellow green morning
slowly i put
a tiny sun enough to light
a shy nook
the one that hides in the night
fearing reprisals.

the pungent smell in us
can be
happiness, the ugly side
of our faces
she loves.
the bad side of our story
becomes part of her own
biography.
she embraces what we had
been
tragic as we are
horrified with what we are
facing.
this must be love, this must be.

there are times when we simply have
to segregate
stones from pearls
there are times when we have to exercise
rectitude
strict to some restrictions like

this has no value at all, throw this away
set this aside, let there be no names here
friendship is just at the cafe watching people
pass by
admiring the good ones
this is my hand and it is looking for the best in us
sorry, you do not fit here
i guess, i, too must know how to junk
situate,
find yourself as i find me.

There is a prison
Which you yourself create
You own the lock and key
And you ain’t setting
Yourself free

If they ask
You will say
It is my home
& I am safe.

When they see me
Bleed
And I let it be
When they see me suffer
That much
And I complain to no one
To nothing

They perhaps will soon
Understand
Why I keep this pen
And paper
Why I wasted my hours
Scribbling
I do not wish to be
Understood
I complain to no one
I repeat
They see me bleeding
And I keep on saying
Nothing,
“it is nothing”

Wolves haunt me
And I try to run away
As fast as the dust
Blown by the wind

They hunt
Desiring to eat
All of me
Flesh, cartilage,
Nerves
And bones
And finally I got tired
Of this haunting
Now I wait
In ambush
Learning my way to
This revenge
I will capture each
And eat.

do not be afraid about the mundane
the one which takes you smoothly to hell
tread upon it
befriend the snakes and the scorpions
walk with them
and slowly lead them all to the gates of
heaven.

trust no one he says
and that includes yourself
and so he lives in doubt
inside his body
what his right hand does
his left hand always asks
what his mouth speaks
his heart takes time in
contemplating silence.

suffering shares the same eyes,
same point of view
and as i see it
sufferers take the same road
of voluntarily taking so much
suffering
on their hearts
sort of having learned and loved
what suffering gives them
and when sometimes they met
accidentally in the park or in some
Chinese restaurants
drinking their kind of tea
when their eyes meet
they easily know the names of their
existence
without need of introduction
and despite this seeming familiarity
less the trifle
after having a short look at each other
they nod their heads
their lips back on the cup
and without much effort to avoid it
they continue the sipping
slowly, slowly,
and when the cup is consumed
they take leave
say no excuses
and never really really
gone.

early morning this guy
says that he has not moved on
with an outworn love
the one that junks his affection
and does not want
ever
to even see him again

what can i say?
he must learn the art of letting go
and he is not original on this
that art of singing out
like he had never sang before
and when all the noise is released
he should know that this world too
needs the luxury of
silence.

always
something has been
made impersonal
faceless desire
unresolved thirst
eternal hunger
that no one will
ever satisfy

the silence of
stars
the distance
this longing
for the infinite
a God whose name
you have no right
even to know.

others are too conscious
about originality
what they write
or think, if you scrutinize it so well,
is never theirs

they're not the first to have
conceived
what light
is there
what darkness lies
what roundness does this earth
own?
i guess
everything is but a mutation of
an originality which was never
there in the first place
nostalgia remembers
takes in
what was there before
you don't exactly remember
the details
but you know the essence
and you
claim it solely as yours
what a shame

when he sees
you holding it
he thinks
you are the thief

when he sees
you giving it away
he says you are
the briber.
why did he not
ask?
he should have
known why.
to me he has
become the most dangerous
man on earth.

i'd like to take take you away from
that wrong place.
twisted trees. poisoned winds.
a river of rocks.
a rose made of nothing but thorns.
a house without a window.

how i wish i can take you to my place
the exact opposite of where you are in now.
you are smiling there.
Eyes filled with so much contentment.
You are very sure of your life.
You announce your heart beats.
and so i resumed my silence.

now, there is so much familiarity between us.
when i wink, or when i wiggle a finger, you already
know what i mean.
i know too what you mean, what you really mean to me.
(there are times however when i
with malice disregard your signals.)

I get bored sometimes.
And in this nauseous state,
i set my eyes on other far islands.
i vomit but i do not have to tell you.
what is the use?
we keep on breathing same air.
Cleaning same room.
Sharing secrets.
Brushing our teeth on same stories.
there is a plateau where we live.
There is an edge.
When we go beyond we fall.
the story must end simply.
We keep the fence strong.
The boundaries are in bold strokes.
We have taught our feet first
where to step
secure and sound.
You may go away.
You didn't and i didn't.
Hence, we still hold hands.
Keep same table.
sit on same chairs.
Breakfast together.
Eyes fixed on the TV.
Morning news.

please
take your seat.
Sit if you like,
If you don't
Stand
or even leave.

please
i say the word.
please.
but i do not
beg.
i say it with dignity.
stay.
if you like.
when i say
please
i accept
that you are not
at all
completely mine.
and neither i
am yours
completely.
now, since you
are staying
i am thinking
far away.
i mean,
the consequences.
i think
this is wisdom.
Love
always understands.
why.

i choose
less but i think
they're better
now.
i set aside
the noise of
glib.
i welcome the
sweet sound of
silence.
minimize. prune.
cut.
leave only what
is best.
i am not alone
in this.
you are with
me.

i did not correct
the wrong notions.
he will not believe
what is sculpted.

it shall remain in
the stone
of his faith.
when we see
each other,
just this morning,
i give him a stare.
and he stares in
return.
everything is definite
the house is inside
the fence.
Ducks keep
quacking.
i have my own
dead chickens too.
He keeps my goats
but i do not mind.
i do not wish
to take control of
his clouds.
i have my own sea
to keep
and my oceans
are deep
as usual.
he destroys a world
so many worlds
hoping to destroy mine.
this time i keep
things out.
birds fly away.
as i always do.
i give them
every freedom they
want on the
power of their
wings.

he had modest beginnings.
a woman whom he can never love
supports him to college.
he got a world of his own now
and takes another woman of his dreams.

his wings are long and strong.
he flies alone, corrupted by the sky.
what transformed him
into a black bird
is not unexpected.
His past has horns
His teeth sharp from
the beginning.
he wants not to see the truth
that hurts him since childhood.
how to rule the world and then destroy it,
will always have the consequences
he will always choose the wrong way
and everyone is excited
to see how he destroys himself.
"bad karma, always bad karma"
the old woman tells us.
" he should not have killed himself",
his wife says in closing.

it is always good to start with nothing in mind.
some people kill without motives,
with nothing in mind.
they kill just for the heck of it.
Nothing to do.
And everything hurts.

in poetry it is also good to
start on that premise.
nothing to do.
nothing to say.
just for the heck of writing.
no motives.
Do not ever think that with poetry
you can change this world.
without poetry this is still the same world.
a world which has nothing to say for itself.
nothing to do with you.
nothing in its mind.
That is why we are taking the initiative.
we put our minds to its round head.
we pour our misgivings
including our amazement
and we pretend that it is listening.
poetry in fact is nothing but a murmur.
a chant if you elevate it to a higher level.
a bird if you make it animated.
an ocean of mysteries if you want a little depth.
you sit there. you press the keys.
you expect a miracle.
nothing comes.
you imagine images.
thoughts come spontaneously.
do not manipulate it.
Just write.
you look outside the window.
sunshine arrives on the flowers.
in your window pane.
there are no words which you can see.
you feel. there is warmth.
The leaves of the china flower are
eaten by caterpillars.
There is a nest of sparrows.
The ylang-ylang blooms are gone for now.
And then i say goodbye.

These hands

there are so many things to be done.
being early or late is of no moment.
i am kneading a dough. I am putting
powder on the face of  a dog. It is
always I. There are so many thing to
make you run. A little to make you stop.
If you stop, it is a prelude to dying and
putting no meaning now, like stopping
for no reason is death itself. Oh yes.
I found it. These hands.

assurances on the last page of the book

i took away the dog ear.
which means, i am done.
I have walked through it.
And i am stopping somewhere
else. You are not there.
So i make some assurances
for the best end of a lifetime.
Oh, i have done good. Well
enough i have served. I have
slept well. The nights were
filled with stars. I counted
them all.
I am going to heaven.
You say it is just a belief.
A way of removing fear.
No it is not. It is the truth.
I am going to heaven.
I have a key. And you are
not there. I face a doorknob.
And you are not here. I am
opening a door. I am here.

I know
you did not get what you wanted from this life.
neither did
I,

but at least we know what we wanted
at least we prayed and at the end we still praised
Him.

We tried so hard.
We still say Beloved.